Amiss
by Whurmy
Summary: "Her stomach lurched at the memory, in a different way than she imagined was normal. Just like it did every other time Demi found herself in this situation." Demena Mitchie/Alex Demi/Selena. Very slight Memi. Femslash.


**Author's Note: I know I haven't written in fucking ages. I am so so sorry. I have a lot of life issues that absolutely love to interfere with fanfiction, and it tends to happen quite frequently. Plus, I've been drawing a ton lately and haven't had any inspiration to write. No, I haven't abandoned Crazy. It's just on hold.**

**This is probably really jumbled, and I'm sorry for any mistakes and typos. It's four in the morning and I had to write this before I could sleep. I hope you guys like it at least a little. :)**

**-x-**

What the fuck was she _doing?_

Demi seemed to be asking herself that a lot recently. She peered over her shoulder as she brought the Malboro to her lips, taking a drag as she studied the chestnut brown curls covering her pillows, the tan skin among her white sheets. Her guest's legs were tangled in the sheets, her hand splayed out in front of her face on the down pillow.

Demi breathed the smoke out and turned away from the naked girl, inhaling cleaner, fresher air. She should feel on top of the world right now. No more than an hour ago, she'd had one of the sexiest girls on the planet moaning and shaking because of her.

Her stomach lurched at the memory, in a different way than she imagined was normal. Just like it did every other time Demi found herself in this situation. She took another deep breath, rubbed her eye and cheek tiredly.

She didn't know why she kept coming back. Old habits die hard, she guessed. She scoffed under her breath and flicked her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray on the nightstand. She knew that wasn't it. She didn't know what it _was_, but she knew she wasn't pathetic enough to blame it on that.

Then again, this was the... Sixteenth? Seventeenth time this had happened? Maybe she was that pathetic.

She drove the burning cancer stick into the tray and watched the tiny wisps of smoke billow up, then fade completely. It always got worse before it got better. She wondered when she'd get to that last part.

Her stomach lurched again and she wanted to throw up on herself. She was playing the victim. She knew who the victim was here, and it wasn't her. It wasn't the brunette asleep behind her. The real victim was in a one bedroom condo in New York, sitting alone in front of the TV, watching a horror film she'd seen a thousand times with a bowl of popcorn all to herself.

Demi rubbed her neck and tilted her head back, suddenly all too aware of her unbuttoned jeans and wrinkled up tank top. She felt like such a tool.

She scrunched up her face as she considered that term. How was _she_ the tool here? She was the one using Miley. Maybe using Selena, too. Though she didn't know what for. Neither of them were getting anything good out of this relationship anymore.

She missed her. She realized that about six Miley-nights ago. She missed staying up until four in the morning, watching movies they'd seen too many times to count, the banter with the comebacks they'd never run out of, not even after... Fuck, sixteen years.

"God, I am disgusting." She muttered under her breath, standing up and buttoning her jeans. The action only made her desire to vomit grow.

Even if they weren't dating when they were seven, Demi had been Selena's since day one.

So what the fuck was she doing in another girl's bedroom on the other side of the country?

"You leaving?" The voice surprised Demi. Usually Miley was out for a solid eight hours after a night like that.

"I... I don't know." Maybe. She wanted to. She really, really wanted to. There would be red, puffy eyes and cuss words waiting for her when she got home, but she wanted to go home. "Maybe."

"Good. I thought you'd never leave." Demi made a weird huffing, chuckling noise and turned around.

"Was I that bad?" She said with a smirk, reaching for her phone. Four thirty-two. She could book a flight, grab breakfast and be home by dinner.

"Absolutely horrible. I faked all three of them." Demi felt bad for smiling. Miley seemed to make everything worse and everything better.

"Sorry, I'll work on that. Maybe I'll be better next time." Miley tilted her head and gave Demi this wise old owl look.

"There's not gonna be a next time." It was a question but it wasn't. It wasn't Miley's choice, not really. She could have said "No." but she never would. Demi wondered how she could stand being a chick on the side, but she didn't have the nerve to ask. Miley's life was hard, knowing that was enough. If Demi knew how her mind really worked, she didn't think she could handle it.

"No." Her chest felt heavier and lighter when she said that. There seemed to be a lot of contradictions tonight. "No, there's not." Miley smiled, a genuine, compassionate smile. Demi tried to block out any further questions about Miley's sanity.

"Good. I'm glad." It made Demi sick to know that she really meant that.

"You okay?" Miley's smile didn't fall.

"Always."

She'd just have to take her word for now. She had a plane to catch.


End file.
